Saints
by Ms. E. Gadd
Summary: When the world is dying, all you have to look for are the ones who are living. They hold the interesting stories. Let's see what Death has to say.
1. Prologue

_**Saints**_

First the colors.

Then the humans.

Then the leftover humans.

**Prologue**

Here is an absolute fact:

You are going to die. The question is when, and how. What not to question, is my presence at the time.

In all truthfulness, I will attempt to be cheerful about this topic, but people have developed a hindrance to me. I could say that I'm offended, but I would be lying. They will know me soon enough. After all, I can be patient. I can be agreeable. Just don't expect me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

Normally, my schedule doesn't allow vacations, yet here I will explain my loophole. Colors. Yes, colors. Simple, don't you think? Well, you're wrong. Colors are not simple.

On my routes, carrying a soul in each arm, there's always a color to be found. I like the royal blue, personally. Deep, deep blue. Rarely have I spotted a human observing color as in-depth as I have. I suppose, when you have all of the vacation time in the world, you never even notice. Well, I have no official vacation time. My saving grace so to speak is the colors I see at the moment. For that moment, I study them, finding peace. Then back to work.

What I don't like to look at, are the humans. Rather, the ''leftover'' ones. As I work and take care of each, delicate wisp of former life, I cannot look at them. The survivors. In all of my stubbornness, I sometimes fail. It makes sense, though. I mean, in a serious situation like this, it is hard to ignore the sorrow that bleeds through each poor of the leftovers. It surrounds you, crawling towards you when you back away. Heartbreaking. Strangling.

I try to make the best of it when I do fail. I look for the special ones. The ones who interest me. The ones I follow.

Overall, this is really a small story. A pick from a handful. That, and among other things:

-A brother and sister  
-Smoke  
-A crumbling earth  
-Some fanatical gangsters  
-And quite a lot of guns


	2. Chapter One: The Incoming Storm

Part One  
Chapter One  
The Incoming Storm 

I saw them quite a lot, actually. During those years, I was just about everywhere.  
Excuse me, where are my manners? I'm sure you are wondering what years I am talking about. The 2040s, my friends. Do not ask me to describe the world, for there is nothing to describe.  
Back to the children. The first time that I had seen them, I was carrying away their Mama and Papa. I made the mistake of looking back.  
At a glance, any passer by would have just seen a fifteen-year-old boy and his younger ten-year-old sister. They didn't stand out in the crowd. No one really did. But I saw something. Something more.  
The boy had coal black hair, a few strands here and there fluttering in the wind. His skin was pale, a little paler than his sister. He never smiled. But the immediate interest I had in him was the color of his eyes. They were blue; such a nice crystal colored blue. Like a softly churning sea. I didn't see a ''softly churning sea'' however. I saw a storm coming in those eyes. It was a little tempting to stick around and see what could happen.  
His sister was small, and petite. Something you see in a ten-year-old girl. Her hair was a nice wheat-blonde, jaw length and soft. She held a doll in her left hand, a necklace in the other. Her eyes weren't as interesting, frankly. I have seen those kinds of eyes more than I care to remember. They were chocolate colored. Dark, dark chocolate. But they were hypnotized, like she didn't know what was going on. Seeing without seeing.  
They were both cold on the day that I had first seen them. Fluffy snowflakes were falling from a very grubby-colored sky. Their nails were dark with dirt, their skin covered with smudges of matching dirt. Tattered jackets, tattered shoes. It could be expected of orphans.  
Their parents were executed. They had witnessed it. Now what? Where are they supposed to go? What were they supposed to do? Their parents were radicals, therefore they were not accepted by society. The world was so cold these days.

But the boy had a plan. A storm was coming. If you come with me, I will tell you the rest. I will tell you a story.


	3. Chapter Two : Illness, War, and the Cold

Part One  
Chapter Two  
Illness, War, and the Cold 

As we know, the boy and girl's parents were executed. They only have each other now. Let's give them names. Identities.

His name was Erick Saint Claire. She was Clarice Saint Claire. (I personally like her name. It has a nice ring.)

After the burial of their parents, (which was quite cheap and careless), the two orphans didn't speak. They stared at the graves, watching as soft snow gathered on the mounds of dirt. I stood a little to the right.

Time passed, and what little light there was on the earth began to fade and disappear. As I watched them, I took in how lost they looked. Of course, Erick attempted to maintain a hard face, for his sister's sake. His eyes were the giveaway. They couldn't keep away the sorrow.

Clarice still held onto the doll and necklace. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and frozen tears gathered on them. Part of me wanted to reach out and say, '' I'm sorry, child.'' But I could not.

Without a word, Erick withdrew his hand from his pocket and reached out to Clarice. She did not speak, but slipped her small hand into his, the necklace pressed between their palms. It was time to go.

The necklace, I realized later on, was their mother's. It was a simple locket on a delicate silver chain. Inside the locket was a picture of the family. They looked so happy. It's a shame that the two children now must resort to a tiny photo to remember what used to be.

I followed behind them as they walked out of the prison cemetery. They still did not share a word, but I suppose it was what they wanted. What do you say after witnessing their parent's execution? Their parent's souls were soft in my arms. I wondered if the children felt their presence.

The ground was getting increasingly difficult to walk on. So much muck. Most of the roads were torn up because of explosions and such, so the dirt beneath them mixed with melted and fresh snow.

Here is another small fact:

The world is sick.

You see, in the past twenty years or so, much of the earth has become ill will sickness, lies, greed, and lack of accepting. As of March 20, 2031, we have entered into World War III.

The effects of war soon choked the world. With the advancement of technology, it became simple to kill on massive scales. Obviously, humans have not learned much from the past. The air is polluted to the point were the sky is no longer blue, but a murky grayish-brown. It is winter most of the year, especially in the Northern hemisphere. And for the most part, it is rare to find a fully intact building no matter where you are.

Groups protesting the war soon developed. It was relatively peaceful at first, until the government took action. They did not need these groups to deal with. On January 3, 2033, military officials were ordered to open fire on a protest group stationed outside of the U.N. building. The news of this enraged countries worldwide. Soon, protest groups began to become violent. They gathered guns, and declared war on the governments. That's when my job hit full swing.

It was no secret the Erick and Clarice's parents were passionate ''radicals.'' They said that they were not afraid of the government, and that the government should be afraid of its people. The war was wrong, and needed to be stopped. Or else.

Their children stood on the sidelines, watching colleagues of their parents and even their own family members being taken away and thrown in prison. No one ever came out. You were either executed, or left to rot in a jail cell. No in-between.

'' Where are we going to stay tonight?''

I came out of my thoughts upon hearing a small voice. Clarice had spoken.

Erick shrugged his shoulders. '' I don't know. Maybe I can get us a room for the night.'' He obviously didn't know what to do about that. He had no money, and it wasn't like they'd be able to stay for free. They had no one to stay with, either.

Clarice clutched her doll to her chest, looking down at her feet. '' I can't feel my toes.''

Erick stared up at the sky for a moment. I can't feel anything, he thought. 


	4. Chapter Three: A Rotting Home

Part One  
Chapter Three  
A Rotting Home

'' Is this where we're staying?'' 

Erick wished that it wasn't, his blue eyes scanning a shabby little shed. The wood was rotted and splintered, a few boards missing on the back wall. Still, it was good enough to shelter them from the wind and snow.  
Clarice went inside first, curling her toes as some snow melted into her socks. Some warm tears gathered into her big doe eyes, and just as they left her eyelids, they froze. She didn't understand it. Just yesterday morning, she and Erick were sitting at their kitchen table, eating a hot breakfast. Now, her mama and papa were gone.  
Erick slowly stepped in afterwards, hands in his pockets. He didn't really have the heart to tell her that this was a temporary home. In all truthfulness, he really hoped that she wouldn't ask.

'' How come we can't go home?'' Clarice questioned, turning to her older brother. '' Why do we have to stay here? It's too cold.''  
Erick ran a hand through his hair. How to explain this? The military took their house, and right now they were probably tearing it down. If the owners were radicals, and they were caught, their house was a waste of space. All those living there were kicked out. Before, they could gather some possessions, but with the rise of this homegrown terrorism, all objects were confiscated.  
'' It's just for tonight,'' he said. '' I promise.'' It was all he could say. A false promise of hope and comfort.  
I have seen plenty of these kinds of situations, more than I really care to remember. I felt an abundant amount of sympathy for Erick Saint Claire. At that time, I hadn't an idea of how he could survive this. If he couldn't, Clarice couldn't. Why put such a burden on a young boy?

'' But Erick, our house isn't that far away! I'm not too tired to walk, and I really want-''  
'' Clarice!''  
Clarice stopped, a little surprised that her brother would raise his voice. She held her doll to her chest, shivering at how cold and damp the doll was.  
Erick sighed heavily. He was so tired. '' Clarice, we can't go home.''  
'' But why?''  
He was getting impatient. '' We just can't! Now, it's late, and you need some sleep.'' He moved forward, moving some loose snow out of the way. Clarice watched, more tears freezing.  
When the ground was free of snow, Erick sat down and motioned for Clarice to come to him. She sat on his lap, turning into him.  
Pain etched into Erick's heart, as he looked down at his poor little sister. How could he take care of her? She was so young, so frail. So innocent. She didn't deserve to be put into this situation. No one did.

He wrapped his arms around her, protecting her as much as he could from the cold.

Clarice felt the texture of her doll's hair between her fingers. The doll had such a happy smile on her face; just stuck there forever. I didn't know why Clarice kept the doll, as it wasn't hers, but I guess when a friend dies, even a child wants them to be remembered.

Time had passed considerably, and Erick just couldn't fall asleep. It hadn't taken long for Clarice to fall asleep, and Erick was grateful for that. One would think that he would be impatient, fidgety, and even upset, but I wasn't foolish enough to think that. I knew why he was so relieved for it. He didn't want her to see him cry.


	5. Chapter Four: Rusty White

Part One  
Chapter Four  
Rusty White

Around the time Erick and Clarice were making that shed a temporary home, I saw one color every day – white. I know what you are thinking, and no, white most certainly is a color. Frankly, I don't think you want to argue with me.

As I traveled the world, gathering souls, and leaving my footprints in the snow, I could not help but feel that it was all a little ridiculous. War - perhaps the most unnecessary act known to man. Yet, here's the irony – apparently I was the only one to understand this. 

Do not take that previous threat seriously.  
I am all bluster-  
I am not cruel,  
I am not malicious.  
I am a result.

Yes, I am complaining. Don't I get to do so? I mean, on average I am carrying 150,000 souls a day, and that's just without the help of this inhumanity. My arms are tired. My eyes are tired of seeing snow.

Most people associate the color white with purity. Perhaps happiness. Serenity. I associate with the abundance of absence. Snow was the heaven's frozen tear. White was the last thing people saw before meeting me. White held nothing. White was not pure, and white was not happy. White was the cold reminder of that there is no longer anything better in the world.

I suppose you think I should be talking about the color black, but I do not view black in such a way. Please, I am too tired to explain this right now so let me get back to the point.

On a recent travel of mine, I was carrying a young boy in my arms. Gradually his soul melted into a pool of warmth, and it soothed me. As expected, it was snowing that day.

I did not bother to look at the humans that busied themselves with their little routines. They were not interesting.

It wasn't until I saw the color of rust break itself away from the bleak white background. Despite the guidelines of my work, I couldn't deny the interest in the change of scenery.

A man stood before me, a cigarette between cracked lips. He seemed to be smiling at me. I smiled back.

Ash fell to the snow. A gun was at his hip.

Just like with Erick, his eyes were interesting. I decided to learn his story. It wouldn't be until a few weeks later at a merchant cart that I would soon be joining the stories of these young men. 


	6. Chapter Five: All For Apples

Part One  
Chapter Five  
All For Apples

They were hungry. They were cold, and they were tired.

The shed had proved to be inadequate, as in the middle of the night the roof caved in. After much cursing and shouting, Erick decided that Clarice and him needed to move on. Maybe even leave town. But breakfast first.

'' Erick, can we get some apples?'' Clarice asked, swinging the doll back and forth.

He didn't respond at first, his eyes scanning the roadside for discarded money. He really didn't want to steal food, even if it meant survival. Damn his parents and teachers for drilling civil and just behavior into his brain.

'' Yeah, I guess.''

A little time had passed before Erick found himself standing behind a merchant cart. Sweat gathered in his palms. Would he really resort to doing this?

He had told Clarice to stay in a gas station just a block away. '' Stay in the very back,'' he said. Of course, she asked a lot of questions, the most important one was, '' Can we still get apples?''

Bless little children.

The merchant had his back turned, arguing with another customer over prices. Now was the chance. Slowly Erick approached the cart, his heart jumping in his throat. Come on, they're just apples. Who cares?

He had put one in his coat pocket just as the merchant's customer yelled out 'thief!'

Erick grabbed one more, pivoting on his heel and running away. The merchant, despite his pudgy physique, was quite the runner. He grabbed Erick's collar and forearm.

'' You little bastard! How dare you steal from me!'' He spat, spittle landing in Erick's eyes.

Oh, God, Erick thought. He struggled against the man's grip, demanding to be let go.

The man sneered, his chubby face clouding with red speckles of anger. '' You had be ready to pay for those, kid.''

'' If I could pay for them, I wouldn't have stolen them,'' Erick snapped. Oh, smooth Erick. Just anger him more. '' Just let me go. You can have them back.''

'' You owe me for the disrespect of stealing, you little punk.'' The merchant stated. Just as the he began to reach into his coat pocket, a laugh rang into both sets of ears.

'' So you're going to teach him a lesson? Let me guess – you have a vegetable peeler in you hand right now?'' Another laugh. '' What, are you going to skin his hands?''

'' Who the – ''

A man with rust colored hair stepped out from the shadows (how fitting.) A freshly rolled cigarette lay unlit between his lips. His eyes were dangerous, but they held amusement in them. He chuckled to himself as he tossed the merchant some paper money at his feet.

'' That'll cover the apples won't it?''

The merchant stood there for a moment as reality slowly caught up with him. He let go of Erick, and stooped down to get the money. When he straightened his back, he turned to the young boy and pointed a fat finger at him. '' If I catch you around my cart again you won't be so lucky.''

A few moments passed, and the smell of burning tobacco brought Erick back to his senses.

'' That wasn't pretty dumb, kid.''

Erick didn't respond, but just looked down at the apple in his hand. He didn't need to be told that it was a stupid thing to do; he already knew it.

The man watched the boy stand there, the amusement climbing back into his eyes. He grinned, despite the situation. '' It some guts, though. But that's all I give ya. So I take it the other apple is for your sister? Brother?''

'' Sister,'' Erick replied.

'' Ah. The name's Ken by the way. Kenneth Wallace. Don't bother giving me your name, I doubt I'll ever see you again, anyways.'' He tossed a small roll of money Erick's way. '' For the future. The next time you steal, be more discrete. See you, kid.''

Erick stared down at the money, disbelief clearly consuming him by the second. Kenneth Wallace was gone before Erick could even mutter a thank you.

But Kenneth Wallace was wrong. He _did_ see Erick again. It just took 54 days, some smoke, and a gun. 


	7. Chapter Six: What to Chew On

Part One  
Chapter Six  
What to Chew On 

On the outskirts of town, just behind a mountain range of rubble, there was a small cabin. It was old, and rather unappealing. There was nothing on the inside but an astonishing amount of dust and grime. Kenneth Wallace called it home.

He stepped into said cabin, flicking a cigarette to some unknown corner of the room. He smiled, taking a deep breath. Yeah, this was home.

In the middle of the room there was a hollow underground tunnel. To find it, you simply stood over where it was, lifted a ''secret'' hatch and hopped down. It was simple.

What wasn't simple however was the labyrinth that branched out from the tunnel. Dozens of turns and passage ways. If you weren't familiar with the place it was easy to get lost. A very ancient way to stay hidden, but it was rather effective.

'' Well, hello my dear and devious comrades!''

Kenneth lit a cigarette as soon as he had entered a large room full of guns, motorcycles, and packs of cigarettes. There were four doors open on the north wall, each leading to personal quarters.

A burly man emerged from the first room, a dirty rag wiping away oil on callous hands. '' You're back. That was quick.''

'' Yeah, but there wasn't much to see.'' Kenneth replied casually puffing on his cigarette.

I'm sorry, I'm sure you're wondering about Mr. Wallace. Well, here's something to chew on:

Some Facts About Kenneth Wallace

He was twenty-two years old

He was a chain smoker, and an excellent marksman when the time called for it.  
He was called ''Whiplash'' for reasons I will soon reveal.  
He could appreciate what beauty the world still offered, which I admire greatly.  
During the times like these past years, he was perhaps one of the greatest men on earth.  
It was a shame the way he died. 

'' Marie is in the back,'' the bear of a man said. '' Not sure what she's up to.''

'' Ah, Markus, she is a mystery.'' Kenneth grinned. '' What you been up to? Messin' 'round with that bike?''

Markus grunted, grabbing a wrench that lay casually on the floor.

Again, let me provide you with something to chew on: 

Some Facts About Markus Desmoulin

He had lost his right eye when he was ten years old. His eye patch is rough in a way; a silver chain was used instead of straps.  
He resembled a bear in every aspect, from his scruffy beard to his tall, broad, and muscled physique.  
He was a gifted engineer, able to repair, remodel, and enhance any mechanical device, and thus he was called ''Metal Man.''  
He had survived one confrontation with me, and as some sort of perverse reward, he would be placed up against me again. 

'' You saw something, didn't you?'' Markus asked. He looked at him with his one eye, a look that said he knew.

Kenneth spread out his hands. '' Ah, Metal Man, you know me too well!'' He crushed his used cigarette underneath his boot, and a small laugh left his lean chest. '' Yeah, I saw something. A kid. Maybe fifteen, sixteen. Not sure. Anyways, he stole some apples from this fat ol' merchant. Got caught.''

Markus said nothing, but crossed his arms.

Kenneth continued, '' I paid for 'em. The kid had this look. I don't know how to explain it, but I think we should bring him in. He got a sister too.''

'' A look?'' Markus grunted. '' You mean he reminded you of yourself. You did the same thing, kid. Before I got to you.''

'' Ah, you give yourself too much credit, Metal Man!''

Metal Man's muscles tightened, and pointed a finger at him. '' If it weren't for me you'd be a radical stuck in a jail cell and you know it.''

Kenneth grinned. '' Nah, I owe your bike the thanks. If it hadn't for Bessy, I wouldn't have been put in the hospital instead.''

(Now let's put together an equation; Eighteen year old Kenneth Wallace + Markus's motorcycle + Collision + A lot of pain = the name Whiplash. And some broken bones. )

Markus snorted. '' You think that. Toss me a cigarette, you fool.'' 


	8. Chapter Seven: The Vital Principle

Part One  
Chapter Seven  
The Vital Principle

Blood : [bluhd] _noun_ : the fluid that circulates in the principal vascular system of human beings and other vertebrates, in humans consisting of plasma in which the red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets are suspended.

I have never been one to turn to the technical definitions of my favorite words. (Now don't go thinking that I am some bloodthirsty entity of your imagination. Don't flatter your arrogant self. I enjoy the term 'blood' because of _my_ personal definition for it.) 

Death's Definition of 'Blood'

Blood : [bluhd] _noun_ : the vital principle. 

If there was no blood, how could we possibly know that we are alive? Every single being on this Earth, is wounded. We bleed from our wound continuously, because we know nothing else. The blood never goes away. It never stops.

Are we that cowardly to seek the help we need? Why do we tolerate this pain, when we very well know that it can be stopped?

I suppose you wonder why I am saying 'we.' I am because I, too, bleed. Does this surprise you? It shouldn't. Death is very much alive, because it is only the beginning. But I am tired of the blood. I am tired of bleeding, but I know that it will never stop.

I feel off topic. Let me redirect this conversation.

Blood is the vital principle because of those who desire to see it. I cannot recall a time when I have not seen blood on the roads of a village because of those who want power. There are those who smile at the beauty of destruction, but they are never the ones who actually risk their life. They are not worthy to spit on, and there is no proper punishment for them.

To know peace, is to know war. One cannot exist without the other. It has been that way since Eden had sunk to grief.

I have taken soldiers, I have taken brothers, I have taken children, and I have taken families. I am tired, and I am sick.

This vital principle is also called life. To know life is to know death. You have seen me everyday; simply find a mirror, and you will understand. 


End file.
